


to thirst for flame (warriors x reader drabbles)

by DrakeMuppet



Series: the last playboy [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: A really gay harem (plus Pieck), Angst, Casual Sex, Drug Use, Falling In Love, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Jealousy, Lemon, Love Confessions, Marley Arc (Shingeki no Kyojin), Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, One Night Stands, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:55:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28394982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrakeMuppet/pseuds/DrakeMuppet
Summary: it was a thrill of sorts, a high more potent than any foreign powder or dried leaf your wealth could deplete black markets of.your charismatic beauty and intrigue had this invisible pull on them, a deadly tug at the heart and the loins. you, this foreign playboy and prodigy engineer.you marveled when they found themselves tangled betwixt your sheets, these emotionally bankrupt dogs chained to marley’s war machine.but when you threw your head back, gasping climatic obscenities, it wasn’t because their hands, tongues knew the right places.it was because you allowed your mortal fear of them to take a shape.your mortal fear of them—those damned eldian boys.
Relationships: Colt Grice/Reader, Porco Galliard/Reader, Reiner Braun/Reader, Willy Tybur/Reader, Zeke (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Reader
Series: the last playboy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108592
Comments: 10
Kudos: 193





	1. prologue

854

  
“What is it like to own Marley?” You asked Willy once.

He grinned into his teacup, a flash of white; blue, suddenly, when his eyes found yours.

“You should know,” he teased.

“The answer is just outside, winding up and down the capital streets.”

“I didn’t invent a more efficient automobile to own people,” you chuckled.

You’d been just a boy when it all started to take off; just hardly twenty and inundated with lawyers, bankers—challenges to your patent.   
  
Your exploration of distant mountain jungles, blessings from desert priests, debauchery in foreign eastern palaces; it all came to an abrupt end.

“What is it like to own Eldia?” The man countered, swiping you off guard.

You sputtered a soft splash into the oolong at your lips.

“I beg your pardon? Fuck, Mister Tybur.”

Your hands brushed the loose dribbles off of your navy three-piece, (e/c) eyes heatedly irritated. 

“I don’t know why you’ve become cross—,”

Willy leaned forward in the adjacent armchair to offer you his handkerchief.

“I see it in the way the Warchief stares after you. What a man to have so _tightly_ wound around your finger.”

Your countenance darkened, the grip tightening on your jeweled walking cane.

”I thought I made it clear, that when it concerns my affairs outside of _yourself_ , absolutely none of it is your business.”

Willy rested the point of his chin in his palm, blonde tresses falling over one smiling eye. It was obvious he loved this—loved challenging the limits of your legendary temper. 

“Zeke is—,”

“The truest of your lovers?” Offered Willy.

“Very dear to me.” You finished slowly as to enunciate the point.

Willy shrugged, sipped at his tea, felt close to guilty as another smile broke involuntarily across face.  
  
He laughed quickly.

”I’m _sure_ he is.”

At that, you stood and strode off.

“I’ve had enough of these childish proddings, Mr. Tybur.” You spat. 

Willy followed after you as you threw open the doors of his tearoom. 

“Are you still staying for supper? Surely you didn’t travel all this way to Marley to simply—,”

You were snatching your coat and hat from the butler in the foyer—cold, wordless. 

Willy fell silent as he watched you leave in your anger-induced flurry, one of many he’s witnessed over the years.

He peeled back the heavy burgundy curtains to see through the window, watching as your driver opened the car door for you.

Willy grinned when you yanked the door from the man. It closed with a sharp slam.   
  
A lovely machine—glossy black and trimmed in polished, golden brass. White tires crunched across the gravel as the car swerved back onto the main road, speeding away toward Liberio.

Willy rolled his eyes, allowed the curtain to fall back. 

He’d known you for _years_.

You two first became acquainted after a series of run-ins abroad, at presidential dinners in coastline countries, midnight operas in royal gardens.

Many knew you as an inventor and weapons manufacturer at the forefront of the century’s innovation.

But you were also a relevant madman, gaining fame in your younger years as an adventurer.  
You became a posterboy for the modern male-child, a new Helos who’d conquered barbarism and ignorance.

But Willy knew the _you_ , you.

It came in pieces every few nights, when he’d kiss the base of your stomach and hear you whimper some other name, a name Willy could attach a red armband to. 

The puzzle was solved, a final, sudden “click”as Willy lay awake, staring at your bare (s/c) backside facing away from him.

Yes, you feared Eldians just like any other.  
But you were a person who couldn’t handle the feeling of helplessness and subjugation, fighting it with vapid hatred. 

You coped differently.

Willy glanced at the rich velvet sofa still bathed in the soft orange flickering from the fireplace. He noted his clothes and yours strewn over the back of it, your pocketwatch and gloves on the cushions.

This.

 _This_ was how you coped.


	2. porco (i.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> his jacket has always caught the stray eye. 
> 
> they’d always wonder how a mere devil-blood could come to possess such a designer piece of clothing.

854

“Oi, Pock! Whatcha looking at?”

Porco turned in time to see Pieck joining him at the shop window.

She saw it immediately, advertised above all else.

“Phew! Sweet jacket! You gonna buy it?”

Pieck grinned, gave him a little bump with her elbow.

“Impress a few gals with it?”

Porco’s hazel eyes narrowed covetously onto the jacket’s rich forest green hue, its darker collar and arm cuffs.

“Gee, I’d love to Pieck—,” he began, voice thick with sarcasm.

“It appears to be on sale! Just a little bit over twice of what my folks pay for rent.”

Pieck cringed, tucked a stray wisp of dark behind her ear.

“Well... _geez._ ”

Porco turned, lowering his head to meet her gaze.

“It’s a _Ryder_ jacket, Pieck,” he explained.

“It’s petty they’d display it here in Liberio, knowing damned well only the rich capital pricks buy em’ up for their ‘rich capital prick’ sons.”

He kicked at a rock, shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

“C’mon, we should be getting back, anyway.”

Pieck lingered at the window after he’d started walking away.

“A Ryder jacket, eh?”

* * *

“There’s a good boy,” you whispered.

You cooed again when the kisses on your neck morphed to soft nips—a stinging bite here and there.

“You’re good—so good,” you continued to whisper; more to yourself than anything. They were good, right? Eldian Warriors in the palm of Marley?

In _your_ palm?

Porco, breathless, fell exhaustedly on top of you. His arms splayed themselves out, muscular and covered in a light sheen of sweat.

His eyes were shut, lips askew for his soft pants, soft murmurings, soft, desperate “I love yous”.

You yawned, allowed your hand to reach down and stroke through damp dirty-blonde. You made a soft “tsk” at his wild, random declarations.

“None of that, Porco—,”

They always broke down like this, _always_. 

“B-but I...I do—like, _fuck_.”

He lifted his head then, that marvelous hazel gaze finding yours.

“I _really_ think I do.” Porco insisted, hand finding and squeezing yours. 

“You think you do?” You asked, lips curling upward in light amusement.

And it had started out as light amusement, sending biting wink toward one in the mess hall, smiling a sickly sweet smile when one of them addressed you, purring insistently that they call you (Y/N) instead of Mister Trancy.

But now, the way the stocky one clung to you, blushing, stammering—terrifyingly in love because you didn’t _despise_ him.

“It’s like you’re a fuckin’ dream,” continued Porco, lips soft on your chest.

Your eyes flit closed. 

It felt like you were somehow robbing them; you, their childhood hero, suddenly and inexplicably made real after being commissioned by the Marleyan military to strengthen weapons engineering.

One kind word, one offer to lunch, one compliment—one sweet thing from you and they’d go mad, these Eldians, these Warriors who’d keep you trembling days after a warm-up transformation.

“....Ah!”

Porco moved all of a sudden, calloused paws latching onto your narrow waist, pulling you to and fro, breath hot against your skin.

His fingers pushed themselves into you, his pleasure twitching and rigid once again.

Yes.

The Jaw Titan was a passionate boy—raw and emotional behind his swaggering front.

* * *

He was late to the meeting, but quick to take a seat. Zeke shot him a look mid-sentence, a glint behind his glasses.

He was across from Pieck, who observed him carefully, noting his hair still damp from the showers—glistening blonde combed back.

She sat up somewhat at the rush of familiarity coursing through her.

It was deep, forest-green—rich in its fabric, sharp and crisp across his shoulders. It even presented a stark contrast to the blood-red armband of honor.

Pieck unconsciously furrowed her brows at the Ryder jacket.


	3. zeke (i.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why did he have to be a royal descendant of an earth-crushing power? 
> 
> why couldn’t he just be a normal boy? a boy head-over-heels in love?

Zeke hailed from a humble background.

Humble, though, was all anyone could be within the Liberio Internment Zone.

But his grandparents knew the value of intellect.

They allowed Zeke to have any book he so desired within reason; political readings were always limited.

By twelve Zeke was perusing historical narratives, atlases and geographical texts. He knew the history of Marley better than all of the students in upper Marleyan prep schools, knew how to recite poetry on a whim.

The books—tomes and encyclopedias; they all served him well at the beginning of Grisha’s dark days...but you.

It was you who carried him through those desolate hours locked inside the house, those times when he didn’t know if the footsteps by the door were his rebel parents come home, or authorities come to haul him off to Paradis.

Back then you were in your late teens—a boy wonder who could seemingly go anywhere and do nearly anything.

Your stories of adventure and intrigue were an escape, your stories about taking down rabid bears with a single pistol, adding turbines to hot air balloons.

Zeke would often shut his tearful eyes and paint himself there with you. In those days, he believed it was just his wistful desire to have an elegant, heroic older brother.

Yet as time wound on, when you published new works, there’d be a slight flutter in his chest when he’d see Y/N Trancy, your name, penned in golden cursive upon the cover.

That flutter morphed into an explosion of passionate recognition when he’d glimpse your photograph before every first chapter. Increasingly, Zeke found himself lingering there, lost in your face, in the heaviness of your eyes, in the poise of your posture, lithe and graceful like an athlete’s.

You kept your (h/c) hair in that infuriatingly iconic, messy bun—the wisps loose around your boyish, sweet-facedness.

When Zeke found himself in the tangles of adolescence, it was your controversial book, “Gentlemen of the Jungle” that set within him a pining that couldn’t be quenched.

He’d find his heart pounding as you described the vast world and intricate details of sex. His mind involuntarily attached your face to the lewd and climactic examples, your half-naked body reclined lazily upon a loveseat, beckoning him.

The simmer in Zeke’s cheeks only sweltered as his curiosity pressed him onward, trembling eyes drinking up your words:

_“When it comes down to the thrill of sex, boldness is something I’ve always entirely adored; more so in men than in—,”_

That day, though, a hand reached abruptly from behind him and slammed the book shut.

Zeke turned to see his grandfather staring back at him, features grave, brow turned downward.

“You’re not to read anything of Y/N Trancy in this house.” He snapped.

Old Mr. Yeager’s hands reached for the binding, but Zeke slapped a possessive hand over it. He moved it away.

“You said I could read anything I want. Y/N Trancy isn’t even Marleyan!” Zeke began, surprised to find his voice loud, rebellious.

His grandfather shook his head once, reaching for the book again.

“I understand, Zeke. But Trancy is going to have to be an exception.”

Zeke moved the book further away.

“His books aren’t even political!”

His grandfather succeeded in grabbing it. He pried your words out of the Zeke’s fingers.

“That perverted prettyboy has too many dangerous ideas—turning lads into flighty, arrogant fools.”

The older man started toward the fireplace crackling with flame for the evening. He turned once to look into his grandson’s pouting face, shaking the book with emphasis.

“You shall not be one of them.”

He tossed it into the fireplace where the flames leapt, danced, and tore it apart. 

* * *

842

Nervous was an understatement.

The bottle of wine trembled in his arms.

His legs felt stiff when the noble Mistress Tybur made eye contact, gestured her empty glass to him.

Seated across from her was the legendary Willy Tybur, his head tossed back as he laughed at one of your jokes.

You.

 _You_ were seated next to him—the only one who could make Willy, at his own gala, appear dry and humorless.

Y/N Trancy.

You were the sun, and in the starry atmosphere of the evening, everyone was pulled into your orbit.

There were whispers from people who didn’t have the confidence to get any closer, hopeful glances from women, wary stares from their husbands.

Even the Marleyan children, in their miniature gowns and suits chattered and pointed.

“I heard he’s so rich he could make Willy his butler.” Bragged one girl in dark pigtails with ribbons.

“Yeah, right!” Sniffed a freckled boy dressed in red.

Pieck wandered up to Zeke, both of them identical in their waiter’s uniforms.

She smiled an easy smile.

“Want me to go?”

Zeke blinked, shook himself out of his panicked trance. He looked at her.

“H-huh?”

Pieck pointed with her head toward where you were seated with the Tyburs. The Mistress was waiting with a polite smile.

“No...I’ll go.” Zeke replied.

* * *

Though you were on the shorter end of the spectrum, you had a sinister reputation for holding your alcohol despite the teasings.

Your glass was empty, resting lazily between your middle and index just as he was approaching.

Mistress Tybur smiled up at the youth as he refilled hers.

“This is the Beast Titan candidate, Willy.” She chirped.

You glanced up at the words “beast” and “Titan”, the latter being something you’d never quite seen despite your smorgasbord of experience.

You met his eyes because his eyes weren’t on anything _but_ you—wide, trembling blue-gold.

He was a handsome boy, tall and strong-shouldered, blonde hair neat and glossy. It was ironic, because one would never look at the boy and think “beast”.

His voice was low, kind as he greeted the rest around him, greeted Willy, eyes continuing to be locked on you only.

“What’s your name?” You asked, half smiling.

The youth’s eyes fluttered, his cheeks flushing a brilliant scarlet.

His lips moved, but no words escaped. Worst of all, he’d become unaware that the wine he was pouring into the mistresses’s cup was about to overflow.

“Z-Zeke.” He stammered—an utterly smitten fool.

“I’m Zeke Yeager.”


	4. reiner (i.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sonetimes reiner sneaks glances at you—only to find zeke catching him in the glare of his glasses.

854

When he’d pushed himself all the way in, you saw sparks. But when he bucked his hips upward, you saw stars.

“Mi-ister Braun,” you half gasped, half hiccuped.

Your hands were palmed flat against his pectorals, the muscles just beneath dusted in blonde fuzz. His slim golden eyes held you, lingered intently on your bare, writhing shoulders, moved to your stiff nipples.

He amazed you, this boy—Zeke’s sullen and aloof Vice Chief, noble savior of your life at that evening’s fiasco.

As you rocked atop of him, (h/c) wild and frizzy, you threw your hands roughly onto the bandages wrapped over his left shoulder.  
The fact that Reiner didn’t bother to twitch in pain nor slow his pace answered your question. It answered your question long before you tore the bloody linen away.

“You son of a bitch,” you laughed, then yelped after Reiner balked, bit into his lip, and hit you with nearly violent uppercut.

Mercy, you were close now.

“You son of a bitch,” you repeated, this time toward the sensation of his warmth spilling inside of you, not toward the fact that his bullet wound had already healed.

* * *

Reiner knew Zeke thought incredibly highly of you, hung upon your every word.

The majority of the lines around the man’s eyes had to have come from working alongside you, becoming a sort of protege when your ideas overlapped with the Warriors’.

But your odd whims, outbursts and unpredictability seemed agreeably worth it to Reiner—especially since you could openly swear at the Marleyan superiors.

Reiner and Porco still cackled when they recalled the time Magath accidentally bumped your arm. The flask of your liquor splashed to the floor and you called him a “fucking inbred horse”. Granted, you weren’t usually so gruff, but you’d been incredibly drunk that morning.

That was another thing, your flippant indulgences, the times you were sprawled across the sofa in Zeke’s study, higher than any known kite. 

But Reiner had seen the fruit of your contributions—most recently being the armored machine-gun nest for Pieck’s Cart, then the airship which assaulted Fort Slava, raining monstrosities.

 _Now_ your hands were full developing the weapon they’d take to Paradis. Your refined Anti-Titan gun required serious mobility, though, and this prompted numerous hours in Zeke’s study with Pieck and the Warchief.

Reiner couldn’t help, however, but feel his exclusion from it all. There was some hidden charisma Pieck and Zeke shared, often pulling them into your orbit faster than others.

You were entirely fond of _them_ , but you’ve called Reiner “Colt” and Colt “Reiner” more times than the two could count.   
  
“We’re just not that important, yet.” Colt offered, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head as they watched you pull off in your sleek automobile.

Reiner had crossed his arms, muttered.

”We’re hardly even important to Zeke yet, either,” He countered.

The other day Reiner passed his superior’s office, glimpsed Pieck stretched out on the sofa to take notes while you drew equations on her Titan’s physiological blueprint.

Zeke was speaking of the Paradis terrain, prompting Reiner to tap at the open door, then sidestep into the room.

The geography of Paradis was something Reiner could easily offer insight on, considering he’d been a literal “resident” for years.

So he threw in his two-cents, felt a flush of stupid pride when your eyes left Zeke to look him curiously up and down.

“Oh, that’s right. Reiner Braun, was it? You were one of the four sent to Paradis initially. I don’t think we’ve properly met.”

Your shirt was partially unbuttoned near the top, the shirtsleeves rolled up past your forearms while the rest of the shirt was tucked into your tight, chartreuse jodhpurs.

Your (h/c) hair fell lazily over one shoulder, and Reiner found himself shifting hesitantly at your frank attractiveness.

“Yes, Mister Trancy—I’m the Vice Chief...I’d be honored to advise you if you’ll have it.”

There was an unhappy glint behind Zeke’s glasses.

“I believe we’re good here, Reiner.”

His reply was clipped. Pieck didn’t look up from her notes.

You coughed, then smiled somewhat apologetically, the glint of your small, vulpine teeth made visible.

You were reaching for the pencil tucked behind your ear, pointed at him and winked.

“Maybe some other time, yeah?”

But that “other time” hadn’t come, and Reiner believed it had something to do with the sudden ice behind Zeke’s eyes when he’d spoken to you.

* * *

It happened so quick—right after a grueling day of simulations and mechanical testing.

You were leaving HQ with the cluster of them, hardly noticing Reiner at your left, engaged in an animated conversation with Pieck—something about making a giant leash for Zeke’s Titan to walk her with.

You both were laughing, and Zeke, walking a few feet ahead with Colt, shot a look backward. His eyes smiled at you, Pieck, but iced back over when they caught Reiner; the latter stared at his feet.

If Reiner hadn’t done that, though, he wouldn’t have noticed the frantic shadow bobbling into view.

The man wore dirty slacks and a tattered blazer, his white hair spiked upward.

“Trancy!” He screeched.

What followed were the garbled words of your native language, Acrecian.

Acrecian.

You halted, whipping your head to the side just in time to see pistol’s barrel catch in the fading sunlight.

You stood helplessly, watching the world explode into a frenzy, watching the pistol’s orange flash, the burst of smoke and fire.

But he was devastatingly quick for such a large boy.  
You felt yourself being catapulted backward by Reiner’s thick frame, his huge arms wrapping protectively around you.

Your eyes were huge when you saw the bullet rip through his shoulder, catching blood and pulp as it whisked clean through.

There were shrieks from civilian women, shouts from the soldiers inside HQ, the groan from Reiner as he moved onto his knees, wide palm clasped over the gunshot wound.

“Good fucking God, man! Are you alright?”

You were placing your own hands around Reiner’s gash, the blood messily bountiful—staining into a quarter of your black Wednesday three-piece.

Reiner pushed your hand away, slurring something along the lines of “I’m” and “Inheritor” and “Remember?”

You looked over into the grass to catch Porco beating the poor bastard into unconsciousness, sweat in his amber-gold hair from the panicked exertion.

Zeke was trying to yank him off, glasses knocked crooked from the youth’s flailing fists.

Reiner slumped forward, dizzy, and you caught ahold of him, allowing his head to fall into your chest. Your hands unconsciously grazed into his bleach-blonde head, the motion, with the blood in your hands, turning patches of it auburn.

“You saved my life,” you gasped.

* * *

“What did that man say to you? Before he—,”

Reiner was lying on his back with you wrapped in the crux of one of his arms.

“Before he...you know.”

Reiner pointed at the ceiling with a finger gun, lips mimicking a “pew” sound.

You shifted the cigarette between your lips, chuckled tartly.

“He said building weapons for Marley is punishable by death.”

The Armored Titan gave a low, “huh”


	5. porco (ii.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At first he couldn’t stand you.  
> Porco really couldn’t stand you.

854 

He shouldered his way past the cracked door into the room—salami sandwich clutched between his teeth, half finished book in one hand.

Porco pulled the chair out at his desk and sat down, scratched at his chin then sent a glance toward Reiner’s side, remembering what he was going to tell him.

He didn’t expect your (e/c) eyes, though, to be staring pointedly back at him, a smile laced prettily across your lips.

Porco jumped.

“So sorry,” you chuckled.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Atop Reiner’s bed you lie with an arm resting behind your head, leg crossed over an inclined knee as you read the newspaper.

“It’s just so much quieter in here, eh?”

Porco’s eyes darted toward the open door, and he hurriedly stood to walk back over to it.

You watched with grinning eyes as he nudged it closed and turned the lock.

Within moments you had your arms around his neck, struggling to breathe with his lips locked onto yours, your hands sprawling through his hair for leverage.

“Goodness,” you gasped when the two of you came up for air.

You shifted underneath him, felt his bulge pressed against your inner thigh.

“We can’t—,” you began, your hands reaching for his as Porco ripped open his shirt.

“We can,” he replied quickly.

“Especially on Reiner’s bed.”

You tossed your head back, eyes rolling shut as Porco unfastened his belt, knowing you’d miss your train for this.

* * *

_**Before** _

Porco worked hard to maintain his self-image—to maintain his air of slick prowess, aloof coolness.

He welcomed the eyes on him, from Eldian and Marleyan alike when he slid into the mess hall, hands in his trouser pockets, brow furrowed in moody thought. Yeah, he’d bitten through anti-aircraft artillery; he’d incapacitated dozens of platoons while being assailed by machine-gun fire—what of it?

Porco adored it when Gabi or Falco brought some of their shiny-eyed civilian friends on base. They’d all gush about how badass he was, ask them to sign their baby sister’s scribble of his Titan.

Even Marleyans sometimes, blank sleeves and all, would stop by his table to personally thank him.

Around there? He wasn’t Porco or Galliard. He was simply “The Jaw”.

But then you always had to ruin it—sashaying into the mess hall with a crate of free beer, your butler following closely behind with another.

“Ladies and gents—,” you’d start, and the place would erupt into sudden cheers, sonorous whooping.

Pieck’s arms would shoot up just beside Porco, bumping him as she gave her own joyous shout. Colt would already be up, dusting the crumbs off his trousers.

“Mister Trancy always has the best stuff,”

He’d turn to ask Porco.

“Want me grab you one?”

And the latter would just tightly fold his arms, exhale a sharp: “Tsk.”

He hated the fact that you were frustratingly impossible to ignore, a pebble in his boot that just wouldn’t tumble out.

Porco’s eyes would follow you involuntarily as you roved about the hall, laughing and chattering with whomever.

He’d glare heatedly at the the way the lighting fell upon your (h/c) hair, the way your body curved when you sat, reached for things, the way you slid pieces of food past your supple lips.

What probably pissed him off the most, though, was how his heart pumped blood infinitely faster the moment your eyes fell upon the Warriors’ table.

It meant he’d have to listen to another one of your fairytales, listen to your stupid accent—how you said “see-ven” instead of “seven”. It meant he’d have to catch a whiff of your effeminate aroma, sweet and spiced.

It meant that, while you were mere inches away, he’d have to cover up his secret, stupefying infatuation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t know why, but I just headcannon reader with a New Zealand accent.


	6. colt (i.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he knew his heart wasn’t supposed to pound each time he looked at your lips.

854

What would your parents think—the late Lord and Lady Trancy; their car driven into a frozen lake the eve your sister birthed their half-Eldian grandchild?

Surely they wouldn’t think their beloved, tenacious son would be splayed up against a supply closet wall, biting his lip toward a trembling Warrior candidate.

Your sailor-blue blazer and slacks were crumpled on the floor, the white shirt that’d been underneath gathered clumsily around your waist. The ruby-red ascot that’d gone with the suit was still tied around your neck. It was like the bow of a lewd present.

Bite marks were peppered across your frail shoulders, dotted down your back to eventually morph into vulgar red blossoms the next day.

Colt was like a raptured puppy—pawing at you, nipping, licking, whining praise, whimpering when your slim fingers found his arousal, coaxed it out of his trousers.

“S-sir,” gasped the boy, holding you closer in your half-nakedness, reaching behind your head to pull your hair out of its tie. (H/c) tumbled down your collarbones, bounced into your heavy-lidded eyes.

You gasped when his lips returned to your neck, and he gasped in return when your hands found his member, began at a steady pace.

Colt shifted suddenly, hitching one of your legs onto the side of his hip. His breath was hot against your neck as he ground himself into you.

“Mister Y/N,” he panted, shoulders twitching with anticipatory restlessness.

“Y-you make me feel so crazy,”

He pulled back to look at you with heated blue eyes glistening with teary passion. His lips were shiny with saliva; kiss-swollen.

“I...I stand it!”

Colt cupped your face with one hand and kissed you.

_Deeply._

* * *

He reminded you of Zeke when the latter was his age, though not as refined. Colt was clumsier, more prone to naivety.

Yet he had that potential for inward strength if he could learn to reach within himself. Colt was tall, fine-featured; charmingly sympathetic to his comrades—one of the few things he had that Zeke Yeager did not; warmth of character, no facade that sunk into a mile-long iceberg like the current beast inheritor.

Colt’s blue eyes were full of bashful “maybes”.  
On the other hand, you’ve told Zeke _no_ , but watched as the blue behind his specs iced over, demanded _yes_.

Yes, that was the difference between the two you concluded, taking a long drag on your cigarette.

* * *

Colt felt his stomach drop when he saw you perched on the courtyard steps, eyes low, expression meek, a half-finished cigarette between your fingers.

He found himself unconsciously smearing his hands on the white thighs of his trousers, but they became clammier.

Yes, like many, you were one of his childhood heroes. Albeit you were much shorter than what he imagined, you were just insane; engineering automatic machine guns, flicking off the brass, and making things explode; all while you shrugged in your immaculate three-pieces, ran lazy fingers through glossy bunched-up mane of tidy chaos.

All of the engineers, mechanics, soldier boys had a slight man crush.

One moment you were bursting into the brass’s war room and tossing down a blueprint that could change modern warfare. Then the next moment, you were high on powder and singing Acrecian opera on the barrack roofs.

Yes—Colt admired you. You were an extraordinary individual.

But last night, the boy wasn’t sure if he could call it a crush anymore.

Not when you noticed him, gaze flickering up from a chess game on the lawn.  
Not when Colt sat down, near enough to see into your partially open black button-up, skin lightly kissed with summer evening perspiration, your cologne sharp, heavy.

Not when you beat him in ten moves, _drunk_ , hair askew—stray strands on your cheeks and forehead.

No.

Oh, _no_.

* * *

You blinked out of thought, and smiled at the boy you knew as Colt. _Not_ Reiner.

He stuttered a shy greeting when you strolled up to him in nonchalance, the heat of your head just beneath his chin, your fingers close to his pounding heart as you readjusted his tie.

“My heart won’t...,” Colt began, aware you were sensing his panic.

“It won’t—,” he tried.

Your eyes, sly and slim grinned up into his.

“I know.”


End file.
